


never would they part

by allsovacant



Series: something to cry on [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Always1895 Johnlock Fic Prompt Challenge, Angst, Character Death, Confessions, Eventual Johnlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mentions and Experience of Torture, Post-Reichenbach, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 21:09:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16272407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant
Summary: Sherlock died from torture in Serbia then comes back as a ghost, not expecting to see John anymore. But fate's strings seemed to extend even after death.—This is my entry for FinAmour's Always1895 Johnlock Fic Challenge for the month of October 2k18 with the prompt: Ghosts.—unbeta'ed for the love of mistakes—





	never would they part

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bluebuell33](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebuell33/gifts).



> The plot prompt came from OctoberIsBlue on Twitter (Bluebuell33 here on Ao3) that goes like this: 
> 
>  
> 
> _"Sherlock comes back after being gone two years, John is waiting for him in his chair, they talk, get everything out about each other maybe some other stuff. Then they go to dinner, as they are walking away from baker street. It moves to mycroft and lestrade at the cemetery stand at the grave stones of Sherlock and John talking about how they had finally found Sherlock's body."_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> —And this is the result. More or less. As promised. I hope the prompter would like it!

  _Република Србија_  
_(Republic of Serbia)_

Sherlock's mouth spurted blood as his captor, a russian assassin, slammed the butt of a rifle straight to his abdomen. The rusty chains around his wrists and ankles clanged when his body tried to deflect the move. But the assassin was faster at this situation, hitting him with the same blow over and over again. The bulb above him poked his tousled curls drenched with sweat and blood. He's almost naked except from a ripped black boxers he was wearing the time he was caught from a midnight stroll along Belgrade's Republic Square. The rest of his clothings along with his coat were stripped off of him. Wherever they ended, he didn't know.

And for the first time Sherlock tasted failure as he let the first drops of tears escape his swelling eyes. Sentiment. He thought of the wasted effort of chasing and annihilating Moriarty's string of assassins for a year and a half. And he's almost done, _almost_. If only he didn't let himself caught by the last troop of those vile men. He deeply regret that he went out that cold rainy midnight about a month ago. Just to breathe out the stress he's been caged in, along the excitement bubbling inside him. The thrill to see John again. He jumped off that rooftop to save the man and Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade's life. He planned and planned on what would be the steps to be taken so that he could make John understand the necessity of the Lazarus plan. Of what he had done. But then in a gust of wind, a hard blow in the head, and he was taken.

Now after a month of torture and questioning, he felt so tired. Blood continuously dripped from his nose and mouth creating a surprisingly intricate pattern down the floor. Every wound and blow he had received are painfully catalogued on his mind; cigarette burns on his arms, whip lashed on his back, inch deep holes from a nail gun and an alarming number of cuts from scalpels decorated his throat down to his pectorals. Purple blooms visible on his ribs and abdomen. His lip has cuts as well as his legs and his back screamed when he moved even so slightly. He just knew he won't make it.

And now here he is, feeling the last of his hopes vanish when the other bulky man asked him the overused crime situation question of all-time.

_"било какве последње речи?"  
("Any last words?" )_

Instead of giving the man an answer, Sherlock closed his eyes and as if on cue it was immediately followed by the ear-splitting sound of raging bullets and its onslaught all over his already limped body.

And that's when he whispered, he whispered the same words he had said before—above the rooftop of St. Bart's that _fake_ last time—except that now ... it's for _real_.

_**Goodbye, John.** _

•+•+•+•+•+•+•

What the tall man didn't expected was that when he opened his eyes, he would be standing in an achingly familiar place by the stairs leading up to a second floor. Hell, he didn't even expected to be standing on a narrow hallway of any house. He then surmised it was someone's flat. Was it his? He doesn't know. But the familiarity was there. Because if there's one thing he remembered, as a last thought—he's dead. So why here? And why is everything without colour? Like something's gone wrong with his eyes. Because the place literally looked _grey_. As if time doesn't work. As if he was dragged back in the past inside those old silent films during 1890s. _That_ and because the place was eerily _quiet_. On instinct he took the steps up, while his ears strained for sound. When he reached the top, he stood at the door for a long time trying to remember anything but still fails. Whoever lived in this house, must be close to him. The nagging sensation of uneasiness, of not knowing enveloped him. Slowly and cautiously he turned the knob and pushed the door open with his fingers.

He swallowed as the door revealed a man seated on a red worn-out armchair. He deduced the man was short in height for the only visible on the headrest was the back of his head, blonde hair with greying streaks. If this was a different situation he would've giggled. But the situation doesn't call for it, for when the man turns his head and was now looking at him—those impossible pair of blue eyes are now filled with warmth and welling with tears.

And just like that, the tall man knew whom he was. He was _Sherlock Holmes_. A consulting detective. The only one in the world.

And the man across him was _Doctor John Watson_. A former soldier. Shot on the shoulder. Honourably dismissed. His best friend. _His_ John.

The onslaught of memories flashed before his eyes as he closed them.

_A laboratory, a microscope, the clicking of cane over the tiled floor, a phone, a friendly dull introduction; a changed of aura from grim to lively ... the thought of suicide forgotten—_

_A chase, heartfelt laugh, a cabbie ride, pills, a gunshot, dinner with candlelight, warm smiles, beautiful eyes ... beautiful pair of blue eyes—_

_Chinese numbers, asian languages, picking of locks, the breathtaking view of London, the breathtaking view of John smiling—but not for him, circus date gone wrong, kidnapping—_

_Shoes, rent cars, explosions, missing persons, missing files, bored, BORED, bored, old lady; dead, John strapped with a bomb, the pool, Moriarty—_

His knees almost gave up but strong arms gripped him on the waist, holding him in place.

_A scandal, an illustrious client, the woman, unspoken words, meaningful stares, the hound, the drug, the experiment, SENTIMENT; 'Take my hand,' the false identity, the actor, the Lazarus plan, 'You machine!' Mrs. Hudson dead, Lestrade dead, JOHN dead—_

"—No. I didn't let that happen. I'd never ..." He murmured. There was the memory of being in pain, but he couldn't feel anything. Only the vestiges of being able to, before lingered. And that same pain was buried inside his chest. A stake buried deep on his heart.

_—rooftop—John in tears. John on the phone. John helpless and couldn't do anything. Goodbye, John. 'NO.' 'SHERLOCK!'—the grave, one more miracle ..._

_A dangerous encounter, shots fired, knife stabbed, bloody punches, dead bodies, a lot of them—such feeling of longing, a night stroll, him being taken, tortured, he remained chained, weak—gunshots, a lot of gunshots and then silence—_

" _Sherlock_."

Sherlock opens his eyes, looking down on the man, now in front of him.

" _John_." He breathed the man's name like a morning prayer. For the first time on what it felt like it was so long, he had spoken the one word out loud that was of importance to him. He felt as if in a daze. And John before him, smiling and holding his arms made his aura crackle with life.

"Hello you, thought you've gone again." John says to him in a low whisper.

"No ... I wouldn't go anywhere, anymore," and suddenly he remembers, "John, I'm—"

_I'm dead ..._

He couldn't seem to say but to his surprise, John nodded.

"I know, Sherlock," then he was given a sad smile. "So am I,"

_No ... You can't be ..._

"H-How ...?"

"Mycroft—"

His eyes narrowed.

"No, you git. Don't jump into conclusions. Mycroft didn't kill me." John paused and walks back to his chair. He leaned back and stared at Sherlock's empty chair.

"I've cornered Mycroft. Asked him of the truth. He told me ... half of it I guess. And then I've tried looking for you. Your brother's men gave me assistance. And then I'm on my own. I've made it as far as Rome. And then they were there. A lot of them. I got cornered. They thought I was the _secret agent_. The _spy_ —I won't tell you what they did to me though." John then looked at him as he sat on his own chair.

"The Rome network." He murmured, and John nodded.

"Those lot specialized in electrocution. They use Rome's quarter portion of electricity in doing their torture. One doesn't have to guess what they did to you."

"Indeed. I was hoping I'd save you the image but, well. You're you. Also, I believe ... the name of their leader was Vladimir Eustavo. A serbian assassin, according to Mycroft's file. Multiple cases of murder and homicide are filed against him. He's also the one who murdered the former prime minister of their country. A man that powerful. I can't believe he's working under Moriarty."

He steepled his fingers under his chin, and stared blankly over John's shoulder. "Moriarty just had a penchant for collecting assassins. And yet what he did to end his life was just a gun on his mouth."

He watched as John shook his head lightly, strong gaze piercing at him, "But the damage was more than that."

A stretch of silence engulfed them. And Sherlock swallowed as he held John's gaze carefully choosing the right words.

"Why, John? Why did you do it? You know it's a hopeless case. You know you cannot outwit them. I mean, you are smart. No offense, still— I have faked my death, to save your life—and of Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade—"

John chuckled rather strained. He was surprised to hear that sound again.

"Yeah. I know. I felt guilty after Mycroft told me that. And well, I guess there's that saying: 'People do crazy things, when they're in love—' or something like that. Not really sure. But it's what you did also. Although, the love you've felt was for your friends. You don't want to lose them, so you've sacrificed your everything. And that's unconditional love, Sherlock."

His mouth fell open with what he heard, and John smiled at him again. That smile he received over their candlelight dinner at Angelo's, the night of their first case.

 _'People do crazy things, when they're in love.'_ If he was honest to himself, would he have taken that chance with John? The chance that slipped away ...

He cleared his throat, running out of words. "I ... uhm ..."

And then he remembered about his failed case, about the torture and he felt weakened. "John, I've failed. I don't think I would be able to move on. I wasn't able to finish my mission. And the lives of those we have left in London, are in grave danger. We have to go back—"

John then stood up from his armchair and walked towards him. The man stopped and kneeled in front of him. His hands are taken and clasped with John's.

"Sherlock," John started, gazing up at him with eyes full of understanding. "The reason why I am here ... It's because I've been waiting for you. It's been a long time in this realm, Sherlock. I don't know if it's the same on the outside world, but in this realm, it seemed forever. But I've made a promise to myself, that I'll wait for you. No matter what. Because I don't think I could continue existing without you. In any place, in any lifetime, in any universe. I wanted to be with you. And I apologise if I was a coward. That I've let what the people around me influenced my actions. That I never made a move on you. Because I got worried of what people would think, of what my parents would think about me. You do know about Harry. But then you've also said, Work comes first. So, it's safe to say, that you have a fault too."

John smirked at him and he felt something inside him seem to stir alive.

"John. I believe I have to apologise as well. When I've met you, I never thought you'd be that change I've been waiting for. You're not just the thrill. You're a continuous mystery that I was totally attracted to. But then yes, you are right. I've blinded myself with work and refused to surrender on my feelings. I couldn't even believe I'm capable of feeling. But now I know. I just wish I didn't let you slip away."

John reached a hand to his cheek, cupping it. He nuzzled against it and murmured the words he never thought he'd say, even on the afterlife.

 _"I love you, John Watson,"_ John smiled at him and the aura around them shimmered once again. Then his eyes narrowed as he remembered something. "Are ghosts capable of loving though? My being right now couldn't feel anything literally."

John chuckled and leaned forward to his space, giving the tip of his nose a quick kiss. Then the man looked back at him, eyes full of life.

"You're Sherlock Holmes, surely you've figured that out."

"Oh," If ghosts could blush, he's definitely as red as a freshly picked tomato.

"And for the record," John stood up, walking to the door and pausing to look at him. " _I love you too, Sherlock Holmes._ And that's the only proof you are to look for."

Sherlock chuckled as he followed to the door.

"Where to?" He asked as they went downstairs.

"Dinner?" John asked.

He smiled. "Alright. I know a place."

After descending the stairs, he heard John's inquiry. "Do ghosts feel hunger though?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Finally, you're asking the most interesting questions, John. _We'll_ figure it out together, this time."

John laughed a heartfelt one, offering a hand at him as they walked outside the front door of 221. 

And when Sherlock took it, there was light.

•+•+•+•+•+•+•

A black limousine parked at the curb and as the engine died, the door opened releasing a man in a bespoke gray suit and red tie. He was carrying an umbrella and walking briskly forward. The man nodded at Detective Inspector Lestrade who was standing under a dimly lit lamp post.

The two men then walked the stretch of road silently leading to a metal gate of a cemetery, beside the chapel. Their figures casted shadows in front of them as they turned left and continued walking up a hill overlooking London.

Greg cleared his throat, but before he could speak, the man beside him steals the words.

"I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to be of company for too long, Detective Inspector. So I assume, you'd get to the point."

Greg sighed, "Alright." He took the sheet of paper, neatly folded inside his coat pocket. It was a photocopy, for he couldn't give the original to Mycroft. Once again he cleared his throat before speaking.

"Molly, that is, Miss Hooper, did the autopsy—"

"And ...? What killed ...my—"

Greg watched as Mycroft Holmes swallowed an invisible lump from his throat.

"What killed ... Sherlock?"

"In here." He waved the paper he was holding. "I guess, I'm just being a stubborn old man and I don't want to read it for you. You do it yourself—when you're on your own. That's all."

Cautiously, Greg moved closer to Mycroft's space inserting the folded paper on Mycroft's front suit pocket.

And with a nod, he walked the path, the way they came, without even looking back.

Mycroft took the paper and read the results. The truth was ... he already knew or he already had a gist of what it says. They had the files for each of the assassins, and Sherlock had them memorised. He remembered the last time he was able to talk to him. It was a month before Sherlock was captured, and a year after Doctor Watson's suicide mission. He thought hard that time how to tell Sherlock, of what happened to John. But he couldn't do it. Sherlock's mission was vital, but then his brother was even more important than any mission. And if there's one sentiment that he allowed himself to feel once—It was regret. Mycroft steeled himself from feeling anything at the moment. He already expected the worst. But it didn't include John and Sherlock to be dead.

Mycroft folded the paper, carefully slipping it back to where it had been. Then he glanced at the way the detective inspector went and was surprised to see the man still standing there looking at him. The man didn't went that far.

With measured strides, he made it in front of Greg.

"My men found Sherlock in an abandoned sugar factory in Belgrade." He began, trying not to pay attention on the weary eyes of the detective. "The report said, he was caught from the Republic Square and was taken at the building. He was tortured in _every_ single way his captors were trained for. I, myself, flew to retrieve his body. But ...the secret forces won't let me see him."

The detective blinked the tears away, nodding at him slowly.

"Twenty-one." Greg murmured and looked away as Mycroft stared at him.

"Molly could barely hold herself from crying. I was there when she began counting them. The holes—Dear God ... What they did. And Molly, she's so brave to be able to do the autopsy. I wouldn't if I could— Knowing Sherlock — he was a great man. And John—what they did to him too. Fucking bloody monsters."

Greg turned his steely gaze towards Mycroft who remained staring at him quietly.

"Swear to me, you'll get those bloody bastards. Swear it, Mycroft."

Mycroft looked back at the hill for a moment and then back at Greg. And then the man smiled. A chilly smile that sent goosebumps to Greg's spine.

"I'm afraid they're nowhere to be found, Detective Inspector." Mycroft said in a hushed tone. "An intelligence told me, they went for a swim in the Arctic and that's the last time they were seen. Just don't tell anyone, I've told you that. It was confidential." The man then turned and looked up at the hill and his gaze softening. "Good evening, _Greg_."

With an abrupt nod, the man left.

For the first time in two years, Greg allowed himself to smile. He glanced up on the hill thinking of Sherlock and John, just knowing that wherever those two, surely they are together. With a thoughtful nod he turned and walked away.

Up on the hill, illuminated by the moonlight; two dark green marble headstones stood side by side. Even in death, never would they part—Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm having a serious writer's block despite of the reasons I'm not really a writer and I already have the ideas listed on my notes. _Damn._
> 
> Thank you for reading, always.  
> Your comments matters, believe me. It could save a life.


End file.
